House of Mirrors
by wintereden
Summary: An encounter with a cursed artefact gives Sam a whole new perspective on his father and brother, and a chance to undo all the wrongs in his past.
1. Chapter 1

_Title: House of Mirrors_

_Summary: An encounter with a cursed artefact gives Sam a whole new perspective on his father and brother, and a chance to undo all the wrongs in his past._

_Author: Wintereden_

_Status: Work In Progress (don't let that scare you!)_

_Disclaimer: Still playing in the sandpit._

_Warnings: Um, language, suspense, DeanandSamOwies. Oh, and JohnandSamangst, because I love them all too much to be nice to them._

_Reviews will make the author dance, and write more, thus saving mankind from her cooking._

**Here comes the circus now to steal your life away  
Catch unwary children at their play  
Disturb what was a peaceful island of calm  
A storm is coming on the horizon  
The traveller begs for you his words to heed  
To fear the evil thing that he proceeds  
Recruiting evil in the autumn times of sin  
A mad collection of broken men  
Thunder ripping out across the sky  
Draw the lightning out of my mind  
By the prickling of my thumbs  
Something wicked this way comes  
The house of mirrors is your place of play  
Ten thousand faces driving you insane  
A carnival of hate crawling through your mind  
A gripping fear that leaves you paralyzed  
Thunder ripping out across the sky  
Draw the lightning out of my mind  
By the prickling of my thumbs  
Something wicked this way comes**

-Nuclear Assault

Sam got the feeling he was no longer in Kansas. Or Wyoming, for that matter. Touching his fingers to his hairline, he wasn't surprised when they came away bloody. That bastard jewel thief had caught him with one hell of a right hook. Dean was right; shapeshifters were assholes, and this one hadn't even tried to frame them for anything. He climbed gingerly to his feet and took a good look at his surroundings as a spike of panic jabbed him sharply in the gut.

They had followed the shifter from its latest robbery at the State Museum, cutting it off before it could hit the sewers, and for once, everything had gone according to plan. Sam had even managed to get a hold of the bastard.

And then, predictably, everything went ass up. Something had flashed before Sam's eyes; Dean had called his name, then nothing. Just a big pile of blackness where there should have been memories of a post hunting high.

God, he hated getting knocked unconscious. It made him cranky. Or crankier, in Dean's opinion, which was worth about as much as the cheep beer he drank.

Panic snuck up on him and attacked with the speed and efficiency of a panther moving or the kill. Where _was_ Dean?

His brother would never have left him alone and vulnerable unless he were physically incapable of doing otherwise. Even then, Sam could recall a few occasions when Dean had come to his rescue with broken bones, and gapping wounds.

It was that knowledge, and his sudden fear for his brother's safety that had him search out with his fledgling psychic abilities for any hint of his brother's presence, and only then did he realise where he was.

He was in a cemetery. A fricking graveyard.

But he could feel Dean somewhere close by, like the bruises you can't see, but can feel beneath the surface. Dean's presence was a bruise in his mind. He wouldn't be sharing that comparison with the other hunter any time soon. He valued his balls too much.

But Dean was here, wherever here was. In the middle of a graveyard.

And not just any damn graveyard, no, looking more carefully, Sam recognised the place from pictures in his dad's journal. He was in Stull Cemetery.

So he _was_ still in Kansas. Literally. Dean was not going to be happy. Their last visit had given the older hunter nightmares for weeks. Sam, suffering from his usual insomnia, had been hard pressed not to shake his brother awake on several occasions. Hell, Dean had driven them the best part of a hundred miles out of the way in order to bypass the city on the way to another hunt. Lawrence, Kansas, was the bull's eye on the dartboard of Dean's nightmares. Nightmares that had gotten progressively worse after their father had died.

"Dean?" He wished he had his flashlight, but it had been daylight when they had cornered the shifter. "Dean?" He called again, louder this time. A shout rang out in answer, but it wasn't the voice of his brother.

It was a child. Screaming.

The sound was nails on a chalkboard in Sam's head. He had never been able to stomach the sound of anyone suffering, least of all a child, but there was something about this voice that had his pulse pounding and every instinct telling him to rush into the fray with no thought for the consequences.

The feelings took him by surprise, but he didn't stop to analyse them.

The Spartan graveyard glowed under the full light of the overhead moon. Sam darted gravestones and vaulted headstones as he sprinted up the small hill towards the screaming, his mind replaying everything Dean had ever told him about the nineteenth century site.

_Gateway to Hell, yadda yadda, devil walks the earth, blah blah. _Dean had been stubbornly pessimistic about the whole place, and for the life of him, Sam had difficulty remembering anything beyond the look of disdain on his brother's face.

Another heart-rendering scream of terror, and Sam rounded the thick trunk of a tree only to come face to face with an image from his own childhood nightmares.

A ghoul.

Sam _hated_ ghouls with a passion that bordered on repulsed obsession. They represented every evil thing Sam had grown up leaning about. Horrific, white-faced creatures, with melted, peeling skin and bloody, gore covered lips. Standing close to seven feet, even hunched over, ghouls were one of the few creatures Sam had to look up at in order to make eye contact.

He hated that, too.

The thing crouched on double jointed, deformed legs, ready to spring away, taking its victim with it. Sam got a brief glimpse of terrified, tear filled green eyes set in a small face before the ghoul tossed the child away like a rag doll and leapt for Sam.

Immediately, Sam went for his weapon, only to realise that it must have been lost somewhere in the fight with the shifter. Barely able to dodge the speedy attack, he darted to the side to avoid sharp claws and bone crunching teeth.

He couldn't spare a glance at the child, but the stillness he sensed from the tiny body made the blood cold in his veins.

He _really hated_ ghouls.

A swipe of a clawed arm raked a burning path across his shoulder blades. Pushing past the pain the way his father had taught him, Sam brought his own fist up with a fast cross hook. The crunch and the spray of blood was far more satisfying than it should have been.

If Dean had been in his place, Sam would have counted on his brother to make some cocky pun at the stunned look that cross the monster's distorted face. Sam settled for a sharp axe kick, his long legs providing both enough range and power to deliver one hell of a blow.

Which, of course, just served to piss the damn thing off.

Two more swipes had Sam bleeding above his left eye and across his bicep. The thing snarled and spat bloody spittle across Sam's face. Sam belted it for that alone. He ducked an arm, circled around behind his opponent, and curled one hand under its jaw. He broke its neck with one smooth jerk of his hand, and wondered if it were so wrong that he knew his dad would have been as proud as hell.

Sam darted over to the fallen child before the vile remains of the ghoul hit the cemetery ground, his fingers frantically searching for a pulse. The little boy couldn't have been more than five years old and Sam had never felt so much the giant Dean called him as he did in that moment, the small head cradled gently in one palm.

"Come on," He whispered. There was so much blood. Too much blood. After what seemed like an eternity, he felt the weak thrum of a heartbeat against the thin skin of the boy's neck. "Thank you, thank you." He breathed, not knowing to whom the thanks was directed.

He should have been paying more attention, and Dean would kick his ass so damned hard if he ever found out, but in that moment, Sam's concentration was focused entirely on the unconscious child. He didn't notice the second ghoul until it had reared up above him, snarling ferociously. Cursing himself for making such a rookie mistake, it was only his instincts that saved him from a head-severing blow from the monster's gnarled claws.

Ghouls were a mound of deformed bones and twisted muscles, and Sam used his knowledge of their anatomy to swipe out at their most vulnerable point. Shifting the child to one arm, still crouched on the damp earth, Sam kicked out with one long leg, his foot connecting with what constituted a kneecap.

The sound of bone snapping was almost as loud as the sound of a bullet leaving the barrel of a gun. Both noises kicked his instincts into overdrive- he threw himself down as the bullet lifted the ghoul clear of the ground, and he stayed crouched until the thing landed in a messy heap only metres from it's counterpart.

"What in the hell took you so long?" He snapped, looking up and expecting to see Dean pulling a Dirty Harry.

The man in the leather coat wasn't his brother, and the smoking gun wasn't Dean's favourite pistol. The ground dropped away from beneath him, leaving him floundering against a tide of emotions too complex to compute. He stared dumbly at his rescuer.

John Winchester looked far younger and far more terrified than Sam could ever remember seeing him. The sudden shock unblocked the dam in his mind, and the pieces dropped into place. He took another look at the boy, the five year old lost in a Kansas cemetery. In the end, he settled on one of Dean's favourite sayings as he dared to raise his gaze once more to the smouldering eyes of his father.

"Son of a bitch."

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

_Wow, thank you so much for the lovely response I have had back for this. It is so unlike anything I have ever tried before, your kind words mean the world, and really encourage me, so thank you._

_Just a quick note to say firstly that dates and chronology are taken from John's journal on the official site, and secondly, that though he may seem a little OC now, he is more grieving husband than Obi-Wan monster hunter. As for those of you who wanted to know how John takes the news of Sam's identity, I am going to be an awful tease and say that not everyone in this story comes to know the truth. You'll have to read on to see which ones do. So I hope you enjoy this next part, and remember, I work in a job that thrives on communication so please speak up and let me know what you think!_

Make his fight on the hill in the early day  
Constant chill deep inside  
Shouting gun, on they run through the endless grey  
On the fight, for they are right, yes, by who's to say?  
For a hill men would kill, why? They do not know  
Suffered wounds test there their pride  
Men of five, still alive through the raging glow  
Gone insane from the pain that they surely know

For whom the bell tolls  
Time marches on  
For whom the bell tolls

-Metallica.

The ground slowly stopped shaking beneath Sam's knees. It looked bad, he knew, John's unconscious son lay bloody and beaten in his arms. He half expected his father to shoot him on principle. What he had failed to realise was that the man before him, trained killer though he was, had not spent years being forged into the hardened hunter he would become. He had lost his wife-probably only months before, Sam realised, sick to his stomach.

Now Sam held the life of John's son in his clawed to hell arms.

Fucking ghouls.

His first instinct was to seize his father, hug him, apologise, yell, to do anything that would bring him another second with the man he had loved so much. And he did love his father, fiercely. Sam had many friends, and twice as many acquaintances- he had never had difficulty forming relationships. His love, however, he kept carefully boxed away.

Perhaps that was the true Winchester curse. Their love, though rarely bestowed, would last beyond death to the ruin of those left behind. His father still loved his mother, always had, but even though John's attention was focused solely on the now, Sam could _feel_ the grief radiating from his very skin.

The sound of a bullet sliding into the chamber of John's gun - a nine shot S&W Sam himself had fired on many occasions, and the soft whimpers of a stirring child broke the spell that had settled momentarily on the cemetery.

Any question as to the boy's identity was negated the moment Sam broke the cardinal rule of hunting and looked down into the small face.

_God almighty…Dean._

"Gonna have to ask you to back off, friend." Somehow, John managed to keep his voice civil, a skill he learned in the Marines, perhaps, because Sam knows _he _would have freaked if some stranger had been caught with his hands all over his baby boy.

And that was before they got to the things that went bump in the night.

Not willing to test his father's famously short temper, and adamant to go at least five minutes without fighting with the man, Sam carefully lay his big…little…Christ…_Dean_ on the softest looking patch of dirt he could spot. Then it was simply a matter of sliding back on his knees, ignoring the pull at one of many bleeding wounds, and raising his hands in the universal symbol of _Unarmed, please don't shoot me. I'm having a bad enough day as it is. _

"It's okay," he ventured, treating his father like he would a wild horse, especially if said horse was armed, pissed, and looking to make something hurt. "I'm a friend." More than a friend. He wanted to say that, that and so much more, but if Sam were avoiding the subject of his sudden, not to mention abrupt change in location, John might just have a heart attack at the Back to the Future situation.

Dean moaned again, and if the shattering sound made Sam want to tear out his own heart, then it was entirely understandable when John shouldered the gun and dropped to his knees besides his son, Sam and the ghoul forgotten.

What followed threatened to break the young hunter in two.

Barely conscious, and hurting in ways no child should understand, Dean responded to the familiar touch of his father in a way that made both adults bleed inside.

He called for his mother.

Over and over. The whispers becoming louder and louder until the pain brought about full consciousness, and Dean was screaming for Mary with as much volume as his small lungs would allow.

Watching from the outside, Sam wasn't sure how his father coped. Just the knowledge that this was _Dean_, his Dean, who was hurting and scared and missing their mom so damn much…Sam had never been faced with anything like it. Dean sucked up pain like a sponge. Sometimes Sam thought his brother actually welcomed it. Extreme circumstances had seen the escape of a treacherous tear or two, but this desperate wail…

It was so unDean like that Sam was convinced there was some kind of mistake. Wherever he was, be it some spell, some paralleled universe, the past, or possibly even Hell, the mastermind behind the details had a few facts wrong.

This wasn't Dean.

"Shush, baby, I got ya. It's okay, Dean, daddy's here." John was crying, and yes, that settled things in Sam's mind.

He was in Hell.

The shapeshifter had wasted him, and this was his eternal punishment for being some part of the demon's evil scheme.

He swallowed, licked his lips and tasted the salt there. His own tears began to burn. God, if only Dean could see him now, he'd call him a pussy and roll his eyes, then sneak the last of the M&Ms into Sam's bag and refuse to eat them because they were 'tainted'.

"He needs a hospital." Sam found his voice, rescued it from drowning in the confusion and sorrow deep inside himself. Dean still screamed, sobbing and twitching, John holding him and rocking them both. "Now," Sam barked in the tone he had learned from the broken man at his knees.

The order penetrated his father's terrified mind. Orders meant combat. Combat meant death. He followed the voice of authority without question, climbing to his knees and lifting Dean with him. The shift must have nudged some injury in Dean, because the cries fell silent and so did he.

The Impala, dusty and in need of a good wash, was parked at the entrance to the cemetery, and after a second harsh command from Sam, John climbed into the passenger's seat, Dean in his lap. Though he was taken aback by the obedience of the most obstinate man on the planet, Sam figured that John would rather let a stranger drive his car than let go of Dean.

It was a twenty-minute drive to Lawrence Memorial Hospital, but the roads were empty, and Sam made it in less than fifteen.

When the doctors rushed Dean away, John attached to the gurney as it speed down the corridor, Sam collared a nurse.

"He's allergic to codeine." He said softly, not knowing if the allergy that made his brother so ill had been diagnosed, and unwilling to even risk the possibility that it hadn't.

It wasn't until the controlled chaos of the emergency room had settled to a relative calmness that Sam let his knees sag, and he fell awkwardly against the magazine rack. A young nurse asked after his health, her eyes warm and compassionate. Sam could only nod mutely and stare in shock at the newspaper on top of the pile.

December 15th. 1983.

Twenty-three years. He'd lost twenty-three years. They were misplaced, or rather he was.

It was funny. The foundations of his entire life had quite literally vanished beneath him, and all Sam could think was how he wished all this had happened just a month earlier.

_God, Mary, I'm so damned sorry…_

John thought he must have been Nero in a past life. Or maybe Genghis Khan. What else could explain the thundercloud of torment that hovered above head, pregnant with thunder and rain that threatened to wash away everything he loved?

First his beautiful wife.

Now his precious son.

Dean was sleeping, just sleeping, though he checked with the nurses every time they passed by, just in case. He wanted to rest his hand on the small chest, feel it rise and fall with every breath, but the doctors had put seven stitches in place to hold together torn flesh.

John couldn't even think about it without wanting to vomit again.

He'd made it to the bathroom the first time, but there was no way he was leaving Dean's side again, even though he should probably call Mike. He and Kate would be worried sick, but it was her fault Dean was here, John had only away from him for a half hour, answering more police questions- as if he hadn't done so a hundred times already. Half an hour, and that thing…that devil, it stole his son just as the fire had stolen Mary.

Two of the most precious beings in the world, and he had failed them both in less than a month.

His son's pleas for his mother still echoed in John's ears. He hated them, not only because in his mind, they embodied the sounds of ultimate suffering, the very sounds his soul echoed, but because in that terrifying twenty seconds, Dean had spoken more than in the past twenty-three days and seven hours combined.

Yes, he kept count.

The smell of lukewarm coffee flooded his overwrought senses as a plastic cup was pressed into his trembling hands.

He looked up, the stranger from the graveyard shuffled awkwardly from foot to foot, as if he didn't know what to say. Someone had patched him up, washed away the blood to reveal a young face and ridiculously long dark hair.

This man, no, _boy-_ he had to be five or six years younger than John, had saved Dean's life. John would have been too late, Dean would have ended up just another name on the list of missing children burned into the hearts of parents across the country.

"Thank you." He said, his voice thick, and he wasn't talking about the coffee.

Nodding, as though saving children from monsters was a day-to-day occurrence, the kid took a seat in the red plastic chair besides John. They both sat in silence, long minutes passing as they watched the blond haired boy lost in the bed breath in and out, in and out. Finally, a hand was thrust awkwardly towards him.

"Sam." The kid said softly. His eyes were bright, and he dropped John's hand almost on contact, as if the touch burned him.

"John." He offered. Sam nodded, looking pleased with the answer.

"I spoke to his doctors. They said he should be alright."

This kid saved Dean. John had to remind himself that as the suspicion rose and fell within his chest. Sam looked harmless, but- oh god, he didn't know. He needed Mary. Everything inside of him screamed out for someone to listen, to believe, to understand, but at the same time, he had to protect his boys, keep them safe. Sam had practically torn a monster's head off, not blinked an eye.

He might understand.

But he sure as hell wasn't safe.

"I know what happened to your wife." The words were blurted out quickly, as if Sam was afraid that if he didn't get them out, he might never speak them. John sighed, resigned to more looks of distrust, sympathy and sadness. Instead, Sam looked eager, like a puppy, full of nervous energy and twitchy limbs. He was excited, afraid and caught somewhere between the two. It was an odd thing to witness.

And then the word that sealed the lid on a fire that would grow stronger than the one that stole his world; John's avenging flames.

"I know what you saw, I saw it too. I believe you. I want to help."

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

_Apologies for the delay in updates. Unlike my one shots, this little monster demands serious attention from my angst!brain, and said angst!brain needs time to warm itself up. Beyond that, my internet time is somewhat limited by the stupid locations my work takes me. Archaeology is _not _glamorous, people, and I have jet to meet a young Harrison Ford look-alike. Still, I am now back in the UK for a month or two, so updates should be more regular. A huge thank you to everyone who is reading this story, and a double thank you to those that take the time to let me know what you think. I have always felt that writing is a two way street, an author can never improve on what is not corrected, and a reader won't get that mini!Dean angst they want unless they sweet-talk the girl with the pen!_

_So on with the show. Chapter three, in which very few questions are answered, Sam breaks more laws than I can keep track off, Dean pushes every maternal button going, and Sam finally meets himself. Phew. The ending is not what I'd call a cliffhanger, but some of you might just want to kill me. Consider yourself warned._

* * *

Once, when he was shut up in a motel room with a broken leg and bad attitude, Dean watched the entire Nightmare on Elm Street series on cable, and sniggered at every single one of them.

He bitched through Children of the Corn, slated Pet Cemetery, and did a damn good job of repressing all memories of The Exorcist. He was an unabashed critic who had never once found a believable supernatural horror film, but if you asked him to sit down and watch The Wicker Man, he'd run a mile.

"It's Christopher Lee, dude. He's…_freaky." _Personally, Sam though that Dean could say whatever he liked on the subject. The truth of the matter was that Dean found people far scarier than monsters. Not the chainsaw wielding type, they elicited nothing but derision, but that deeply buried evil that ran through ordinary men seriously freaked Dean out.

Someone had once called his brother a sociopath. Dean had shrugged and knocked out the guy's two front teeth. Dean simply did not relate well to the living.

Sam was starting to understand why.

The police arrived in the pediatrics ward an hour or so after Dean woke from his medication. Sam had taken up sentry duty with his face to the door and the window at his side in lieu of the protection salt would provide them all. Caution had been thrown aside when the little boy reached out wordlessly for his daddy, and John had climbed awkwardly onto the spaceship covered bed sheets. Father and son were the picture of love against the gaudy bedspread. It forced Sam to beat back a small smile whenever he caught the two of them in the corner of his eye.

When the first officer stepped over the threshold of the private room, John's arms tightened around Dean's small shoulders and the little boy almost crawled under his father's arm. It had been John's reaction more than anything that sent the hairs on the back of Sam's neck stand at attention. He shifted his feet to get a more sturdy position should he need to be on his feet, but let his body loll easily in the plastic armchair.

"Officer Winters." The gruff set to the elder Winchester's voice cemented the worry that had been forming in Sam's mind. It was a warning. John was wary, he did not like the policeman, and Sam had grown up trusting his father's instincts.

Winters removed his cap to reveal military short white blond hair. His eyes were a ferocious grey and his shoulders were broad. He jumped straight to the point. "Mister Winchester, I am going to have to ask you to come with us to the station."

Sam got in before John could. "On what grounds?"

Cold eyes looked him up and down, weighing, assessing. Sam rose to his feet and let his extra five inches do the talking.

"And you are?" Arrogance, obnoxiously confident. Dean would _so _have fucked with him.

"I am a family friend." He said firmly, sending a mental prayer to the higher powers that his father would keep his tongue in check and go with the flow. He was still waiting for the other shoe to drop in John' mind and land a bullet between Sam's eyes.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw John watching him with a guarded expression. Dean's eyes were also fixed upon his older, taller, and scarier little brother, curious where John's were wary.

Winters had unconsciously backed up a step, but gained his equilibrium swiftly. "Then you are well aware of how bad this looks. Wife dies in a house fire, and his son is put in hospital three weeks later. It looks suspicious."

Sam heard Dean whimper slightly and turn to find John standing squarely behind him, thunder in his eyes and fists clenched. Sam's Winchester Brawl-o-metre predicted a fight in five, four…

"Do you have any evidence to back up your ridiculous and inappropriate speculation?"

Winters waved a hand in Dean's direction. "Mister…?"

"Clapton." Clapton? God, he had been in Dean's company for too long.

"Clapton, right. You going to tell me the kid fell down the stairs?" The man obviously did not like people hurting children. Very commendable, but he was barking up a tree that was likely to combust at a moments notice.

Sam thrust his own injured arms under the officer's face. "I suppose you think mister Winchester is responsible for these?"

"It was a goddamned wild dog." John snapped, reminding Sam who had written the rulebook on lying to the police. "They've had their tetanus shots and everything." He added mockingly. With his usual sense of timing, Dean chose that moment to pull a face of disgust and shudder dramatically.

Four years old and already committing a felony. Sam could have hugged him.

"Be that as it may," Winters nodded his head absently and Robocops one through three filed into the small room. Sam weighed them up. Small space, dumb cops. He could take them. "The judge _is_ in possession of new evidence regarding the fire at your residence on November the second. You can either come to the station willingly, or I will be forced to further traumatize your son by arresting his daddy."

Sam had seen enough people die of asphyxiation to know exactly what color Winters' face would turn when Sam strangled him with his own shoelaces. It would not be pretty. He would make sure Dean had his eyes closed…

"You don't expect me to leave Dean here alone, do you?" John snapped incredulously. He backed up to his son's bedside and placed a soothing hand on the boy's shoulder. Dean had been fighting unsuccessfully with his various medical dressings in an attempt to reach his father. Sam knew form experience that if he'd have been given any more time, he'd have pulled the IV free, self-injury be damned.

Sam watched with a heavy heart as his father tried in vain to soothe the little boy. He honestly could have killed Winters right then. What kind of jackass acted that way in the presence of a hurt child? Mary had been taken away from him, now John. It made Sam wonder just how much of these events his Dean remembered.

"I'm sure mister Clapton, being such a good family friend will keep an eye on the boy until social services arrive."

The SS. Feared in the Winchester household as its namesake was feared across Europe. Still, the current score was Winchesters 3, SS 0, and Sam intended to keep it that way.

There was a mixture of anger and fear in John's eyes when he looked up at Sam, realizing he had shot himself in the foot by not contradicting Sam's claim earlier in their conversation. Sam tried to put everything he felt for his family into his gaze, hoping to convey a promise that John Winchester could accept, if not believe.

"Daddy?"

"Easy Sport. I need you to be a good boy and stay here until I get back, okay?"

Dean nodded reluctantly. John sighed, pressed a kiss to the boy's forehead and rested his cheek against the golden hair. "Good boy. Daddy will be back to take you home very soon. Then we'll take Sammy to the park and feed the ducks."

"I miss Sammy."

Sammy misses you, too big brother, Sam thought sadly.

John made no reply, simply kissed him again and stood to stand before Winters.

"If anything happens to him, it will be on your head, understand me?" There was such quiet, deadly malice in the words that even an insensitive asshole such as Winters could not fail to take heed of them. Sam knew that a part of the threat was directed at him.

"Please, Mister Winchester, he's in a hospital. Where on earth could he be safer?"

Neither Winchester dignified him with a response.

* * *

The nurse, a woman that Sam's Dean would have hit on in a heartbeat, had stopped by on her rounds, adding a little mixture to Dean's IV to help the boy sleep. As much as Sam hated the idea of anyone drugging his brother, he was grateful to some extent. Removing the needle embedded in Dean's wrist was a task of Titanic proportions, even when the boy was asleep. Dean's wrist was tiny, and so fragile Sam was terrified of hurting him. It took more courage to slide the IV out than it did to take down that damn ghoul. Dean muttered something dreamily and showed no signs of waking when Sam wrapped his own jacket around him like a duvet.

The boy was a warm, sleepy, breathing teddy bear in Sam's arms. Carefully navigating the quiet hallways of the hospital, Sam contemplated the ironies of fate that had him essentially kidnapping his brother from a freaking pediatrics ward.

"Dude, you would so be laughing at me right now." Sam muttered into the warm blond head resting under his chin. Dean muttered and moaned, wrapped one small hand into the folds of Sam's shirt. "You're just too darn cute, you know that, don't you?" Sam continued. He snorted. "Of course you know that. No wonder you're such an arrogant bas-person."

He was not going to cuss in front of his four-year-old big brother. He was not going to be the bad influence in this relationship.

The security in the hospital sucked ass. Sam had only to dodge one nurse and three milling janitors before he was through the door and into the cold night air. Small shivers vibrated in his arms. It was second nature to hold Dean tighter.

There, under the dim overhead glow of a streetlamp, the Impala loomed like the Holy Grail, still in need of a good clean. Sam broke into his brother's car, with a fair amount of wicked glee, carefully lowered Dean into the passenger seat and strapped him in.

"Okay big brother. Let's go find me."

Turning onto the main road, the whole situation struck Sam as absurd. He'd abducted his brother, stolen his father's car, and planned to kidnap his infant self. Any minute and Ashton Kutcher was going to jump out from behind a tree with his camera crew and adult Dean was going to bitch at him for letting the car get so dirty.

He made it all the way into Lawrence without a single Punk'd moment and began to worry.

Time traveling, if that was what he had done, was bad. Like black-hole-world-end kind of bad. It was always bad. Even in fiction- _especially_ in fiction. Hindsight was twenty-twenty- but there was a reason people walked around without their glasses. Sam may not know exact details of events that were happening, but he knew enough to seriously fuck things up. Enough to know that if he grabbed his junior self and hightailed it to Canada, he and Dean would never grow up knowing how to kill a man before they hit puberty.

The thought hit him like a ton of bricks, so tempting that he nearly drove off the road.

He could…

Dean slowly stirring in the seat besides him forced Sam to shove the temptation to the back of his mind. As if someone flicked a switch, Dean bolted upright and scrambled in the seat, not happy to find himself in a car when his daddy told him to stay put.

"Hey, hey, easy Dean. It's okay." Sam pulled them over in order to turn his full attention on the toddler. Acting as he would around a skittish horse, Sam slowly reached out a hand, palm open and up. His heart broke as his brother trembled and leant away from his touch, and just as he moved to pull his hand back, a sharp pain erupted in one of his fingers.

With a yelp, he yanked his hand back to his chest, more out of instinct than anything else. Dean whimpered at the sudden noise and clawed at the door handle.

Holding his finger to the dashboard light, bloody. Kid had bitten him hard. For a moment, Sam recognized John Winchester's hard-ass stubbornness in the watery green eyes of his brother, but it quickly faded.

He might have simply ordered Den to sit still and keep quiet. Would probably have worked in a few years, but he didn't know _this_ Dean. He didn't know what made him tick, or how he thought.

But he could.

He could with this Dean. It would be easy. Children were open to things like that. Susceptible. Vulnerable. Sam wasn't sure of what he was about to do was a violation or a blessing, but he quickly, gently, caught Dean's small face in once hand, whispering soft soothing noises as he went.

"It's alright. It's alright." He promised repeatedly, and slipped silently into the little boy's mind.

Ever since the incident with their second favorite demon, Sam's powers had been doing the hokey pokey. When he touched some people, it was as if he could take a walk in their minds. Some, like Dean, had brick walls constructed that Sam couldn't, wouldn't, break through. Not this Dean, though. As easily as walking down the street, Sam made a beeline for the boy's happier memories. He couldn't force Dean to relive them, but he could tap into the emotions that surrounded them and use them as a comfort blanket.

"There we go, that's better. Shush, it's okay. You're safe." He muttered, along with other senseless words and promises of security and love. Mary Winchester sparked a fire of idolizing adoration in her eldest son, and Dean settled happily under the warmth of his mother's hugs. It was a lie, but one Sam would gladly tell Dean every day if he had to.

"Good. Good boy. You alright now?"

Slowly, Dean nodded.

Sam smiled. "Not going to bite me again, are you?"

A small, shy shake of the head. "Sorry." The word was barely audible, and it saddened Sam that the boy's first word to him had been an apology.

"Don't worry about it. My fault." He said gruffly.

The last time he had been in Lawrence had been with an older, snarkier Dean, who had shown Sam where Mike and Kate Gunther lived, and housed their small family after the fire. It was dark still, and the house was silent. Leaving Dean in the car with the strict instructions to stay put, Sam climbed through the bathroom window. He'd already broken so many laws, of state and time, that a little breaking and entering was the least of his worries.

Locating the room where baby Sammy slept was relatively simple, and Sammy, unlike Dean, didn't seem at all fazed by the strange person plucking him from his cot in the dead of night. The baby cooed happily, and Sam felt so fucking weird, climbing out into the garden with a mini-Sam tucked under one arm. Besides, if Dean's tiny body had him freaked out, he did not want to deal with the repercussions of dropping himself mid fence jump.

It was almost a surprise to find Dean sitting exactly where Sam had left him. The moment he saw Sammy, the boy held out his arms with his patented _leave Sammy the fuck alone, right now_ look that was far cuter than any version Sam had ever seen before. He gently placed his younger self in Dean's arms and was taken aback by the relief that shone out from the small face.

Even so young, Dean's whole world revolved around his little brother. It was humbling, and Sam said nothing as he climbed back into the Impala and pulled onto the main road.

That old Robert Frost poem sprang to mind as he pulled to a stop at a red light and two roads loomed ahead.

_Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,  
And sorry I could not travel both  
And be one traveler, long I stood  
And looked down one as far as I could  
To where it bent in the undergrowth;_

Down one road lay the interstate, freedom, and a life devoid of darkness. He spared a glance at the two small lives huddled together besides him. He could change everything. He could give himself the life he had always wanted. He could give Dean the life he had always deserved.

Down the second lay the path to the quiet street Missouri Mosley inhabited. She would help him. She would show John the truth, and his small family would be thrown down the path of death and destruction, of a never-ending war that knew no pity and took no prisoners.

_I shall be telling this with a sigh  
Somewhere ages and ages hence:  
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I -  
I took the one less traveled by  
And that has made all the difference._

With a sigh, Sam flicked on the blinker and made his choice.

TBC

Now taking bets as to which road our Sam takes.


	4. Chapter 4

_I love you guys! You all have such wonderful ideas...and not a single one of you wants Sam to have the Apple Pie Life._

_Again, sorry for the delay, but this has been one of the hardest things I have ever written. Not in content, just 'gah'-ness. I'm trying so damn hard to avoid the clichés…and I'm probably failing. I was going to make you wait even longer, but Rowan and Mac forbade me from re-writing for a sixth time. Like they have any room to talk. Rowan, if you don't update Devil's Own Luck NOW, I will steal Missouri's spoon and beat.you.with.it._

_So part four. I was going to name this chapter 'The one in which everything is revealed' but I figured that might be false advertising...

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It was close to four thirty in the morning, but the freshly painted door swung open only a heartbeat after Sam rang the doorbell. Or rather Dean rang the doorbell. He knew his brother. Given half the chance, Dean would hotwire the car and drive it out of the state, whether he could see over the wheel or not. Now little Sammy was with his big brother, Sam knew Dean's protective instincts would step up a notch. They had, and Sam felt supremely awkward with a squirming Dean tucked carefully under one arm, and a baby cooing in the other. Dean had rung the doorbell after extracting a faithful promise from Sam to return his little brother. So it was with a sudden compassion for every Disney villain out there that Sam stood on Missouri Mosley's doorstep, any ground he had gained with Dean lost once his mini-self arrived on the scene.

As the door swung open, Sam was stuck dumb for a moment. He really hadn't gotten anymore used to this back to the future crap. He'd been expecting the kindly faced, round, middle-aged Missouri he had Dean had met a year ago. The woman who stood before Sam was the age Dean was when they first met her, lean, and dressed in the most hideous green and blue dressing gown Sam had ever seen.

Missouri took one look at the strange family, sighed, and waved them into the hall. "Honey, you had better let me break out the brandy. I think we're going to need it."

True to his word, Sam set Dean down onto one of the flower-covered couches and pressed the baby into his lap, mindful of the healing injuries hidden by Sam's jacket. A small white and grey kitten scrambled over the back of the chair. Baby Sammy reached for it with a giggle and Dean alternated between allowing the two to play, and making sure no claws got within an inch of Sammy's delicate skin.

Suddenly more exhausted than he had been in a long time, Sam dropped into the chair across the room and accepted the large brandy offered with a shaky smile of thanks.

"I'm sorry for bothering you so late."

"Early" Missouri corrected with a dry smile.

Sam nodded. "Early. I just didn't know where else to go. Hell, you've never even met me before, well you have, and I- Oh, Christ." Sam broke off and downed the amber liquid in one. He coughed as it burned his throat, a far better spirit than the crap he was used to drinking with his brother. "Sorry."

"Alright, now you just hold it right there, boy." Obviously her ability to make him feel seven was a god given talent, and not something she had learned over the years. "Why don't you start somewhere I can follow you? Hmm? The beginning, perhaps?"

"Can't you just read my mind?" Sam said meekly, a small smile touching his lips.

Hands on hips, "You can read my mind, but it ain't gonna be PG rated." Now that was the Missouri he remembered. The only woman in history to not only put Dean in his place, but threaten him with a spoon in the process. Apparently she had an in-built psychic-detector.

Okay. He could do that. "Dean, my brother, and I were hunting a shape shifter in Laramie, Wyoming. The thing had been working its way across country, breaking into museums and vaults, stealing antiques and selling them on to private collectors." Dean had actually been impressed with the mechanics behind the gig, and it took a lot to impresses the Ethan Hunt of the demon-hunting world. "We cornered him on the outskirts of the city, just after he'd finished his latest job. Then, then I don't remember what happened next. One minute I'm in Wyoming in 2007, the next, I'm in Kansas and it's twenty two years ago."

Missouri nodded slowly. "And those two boys?"

Sam swallowed. "Dean and I. We-they, they lost their mom a few weeks ago in supernatural fire.

"Yes," Missouri said quietly, her gaze lighting on the two boys. "So hard for you. To loose someone you love, twice. And to go through that all again…" She trailed off, letting Sam know she was clued up, at least as much as he was.

"What's happening to me?" He had only known Missouri for a short period of time, but she had always struck him as someone who could help.

The piercing gaze that had pinned him melted to something more compassionate. "I think you know, honey." She said gently. "You just don't want to admit it."

Sam nodded. Maybe he did know, deep down. Maybe he didn't. Everything was too fuzzy to order. It felt like waking after a long sleep, the cobwebs still clinging to his mind.

"Can I ever go back?" he asked, voice smaller and softer than he'd intended it to be.

Missouri shrugged artlessly. "Maybe. Can't say. Do you want to go back?"

"What?" he looked up, startled. What kind of question was that? "Of course I want to go back! I don't belong here."

"Here isn't real, Sam. Not to you. Just as there isn't real to me. You are in between. What road you take is your decision."

Then Sam asked the question that had been burning him ever since he discovered it was Dean he held in his arms. "What if I make things worse? What if I'm messing with the natural order of things?"

Missouri scoffed and sat opposite in a large armchair. "Boy, there is no _natural order_. But you can't change your past. It's impossible. Anything that happens here, now, won't change that. Our future may take a different shape, but your past can never be undone."

Certain events from said past made themselves known in painful and uncomfortable waves. "That's not exactly reassuring."

Missouri's eyebrow rose in disdain. "Reassuring? Do I look like a fortune cookie?"

Sam shook his head, quickly and meekly. "No ma'am."

She nodded sharply.

"Sam, you have a choice. You can go to Wyoming, look for answers to a question you don't even know. You can do all that, but I don't think you want to."

"He's my father. Dean and I had him, we had each other, he had no one. He had to teach himself or rely on strangers. I just want to help him." Sam didn't know how to put it more sincerely. He'd spent most of his life fighting with John Winchester. Now the man was gone, once he'd been faced with the inescapable evidence of just how much he loved his sons, there had been so many conversations Sam wished he could have gone back and changed.

"And ease your guilt." She added with a compassionate smile, reading his mind, or the emotions that were plain on his face.

Sam looked up sharp. "Excuse me?" It had been so long since anyone had been able to know him the way Dean could. It was strange coming from a woman he barely knew.

"You blame yourself for the way he died. You wish things had ended differently between you two." He'd forgotten how weird it was to have someone read his thoughts the way she could.

Honest and open, he nodded.

"Then it seems like you already made your choice."

"What about Dean?" His Dean. The Dean that was probably tearing Wyoming apart as he spoke.

"You don't think your brother can manage without you?"

Dean swam in his mind, a million and one expressions flashing across the familiar face before it settled on the way he had looked that day at the lakeside, and John's final secret had surfaced from the depths.

"No." Throughout his childhood, and up until only recently, Sam had always believed that Dean could manage without him. He'd done so, hadn't he? Lived for four years without Sam. Except he hadn't, not really. He'd existed, and Sam had simply failed to see beyond the glass surface of the mirror to the cracks below, even when presented with the evidence. His second Christmas after leaving, when Dean had been spread so thin by everything he dealt with that Sam had never been more afraid of him vanishing altogether. It had been the first and only time he had seen his brother in the four years of his time away, and even then he'd blamed Dean's weariness on the hunt, on the lifestyle his father had forced on them. That had been part of the problem. Sam had been the rest of it.

Sam's fears had shifted over the last few months. Now he wasn't so worried about Dean coping if he left-in whatever manner. Now he was more preoccupied with Dean staying alive long enough _to_ cope.

Missouri picked up on the stray thoughts that seeped through his fledgling shields. Her dark eyes sought out the two small children ensconced in the corner. Little Dean still cradled his little brother reverently, dangling a red ribbon for Sam to reach for, and the tiny kitten had curled up in the gap between his shoulder and the cushion.

"Then it's a good thing he won't have to."

Baby Sammy wriggled in his big brother's arms. The ribbons Dean was dangling in his face twisted and twirled, and it astounded Dean that the baby was so easy to please. Sam had been nothing but difficult since the fire, crying all hours of the night, not settling, driving John around the bend. Dean couldn't help but love him for it. Whilst Sam demanded his attention, Dean could almost pretend that he didn't still feel the heat against his skin. He and his mom had played with Sammy like this for as long as Dean could remember.

The baby's small fingers caught the twirling end of the ribbon and promptly attempted to chew his way through it. Mary had tried to explain to her eldest son that Sammy was teething, a concept that Dean, at the grand old age of four, had been unable to wrap his head around. Having always had _his _teeth, he half expected his brother's to simply be there one morning. All the fussing and crying and dribbling was not supposed to be part of the baby brother bargain.

They had spoons at Kate's house that their father kept in the fridge. As Sammy grew more and more frustrated with his latest chew toy, Dean wished his daddy was around to give him one. A restless Sammy was a noisy Sammy.

A large hand, one Dean could tell instantly didn't belong to his father, came to rest on the arm of the chair in which Dean sat, and the little boy jumped in fright. Sammy gurgled at the tall man. Dean's eyes grew wide and his lip trembled. He pulled his brother closer.

Kind grey-green eyes met his and Dean shuffled back, not liking being the centre of anyone's attention, least of all the strange man from the hospital.

"Hey." The man's voice was like mommy's was when he fell over and cut his knee. No one had spoken to him like that since she left him, not even his daddy, who was so sad that even his gentle voice made Dean long for his mother. Fingers reached up to touch the cuts on his cheek, but when he flinched away they diverted to brush his hair from his eyes. "How you feeling? Do you hurt?"

Dean though about lying. He wasn't supposed to talk to strangers. He wasn't supposed to lie, either. A small nod told the man all he needed to know.

"You remember me though, right? From the hospital? My name's Sam, I'm a friend of your father."

"Sammy." Dean whispered, looking down at his baby brother. The older man's face twisted for a moment before morphing into a smile.

"Your little brother, huh?"

Dean nodded again.

"Bet you're the best big brother ever."

Little Sammy's fingers found Sam's hovering hand and began to gnaw messily on a knuckle. The man chuckled.

"When's daddy coming back? I want to go home." He tried not to whine, but he _did _hurt and wanted to sleep.

"I know you do, kiddo. I'm going to go get your daddy now, alright, so you hang on tight and Missouri will take good care of you." Sam looked funny again, but he smoothed Dean's hair before leaving the room.

A few minutes later and the lady, Missouri perhaps, entered with an armful of blankets, one of which she wound around dean's shoulders, fussing sweetly as she went. The warmth settled the boys into a cocoon. Sam was out within minutes, but Dean stayed awake, watching the door. Waiting.

To say John had been pissed when Sam had picked him up from the station would have been a massive understatement. Sentences had been reduced to words, and he'd been fucked off as hell to see the Impala parked outside.

"It's complicated." Sam hedged, directing John towards Missouri's.

John gave him a look that made it obvious that he didn't care.

"Look, there's someone I want you to see, alright? Talk to her, and I swear I'll answer your questions then."

John nodded slowly, grudgingly.

"I need to see my sons."

"You will."

The door closed behind John with a soft click instead of the resounding explosion Sam thought it should have. Another door opened somewhere in the darkness, a door that lead to places Sam had already seen and would visit again. The small family was granted a tiny respite from the cold, and Sam stood on the outside. It was the strangest feeling in the world, being so close to people whom he loved, and who loved him back, but feeling so alone.

Leaving his family for the second time, Sam hitched a ride into town, hung around for the morning rush, and stole three wallets in an hour. He'd always held a little disgust for the more illegal supplements to their income. Dean hadn't seemed to care either way, and so he had taken the brunt of the action. With the stolen wallets burning a hole in his pockets, Sam realised that it wasn't so much indifference that made it easy for Dean to steal, it was responsibility. John had been the same. Neither had shown much care because the alternative was to go hungry. That responsibility settled heavily on Sam's shoulders. His father and brother might not realise it, but Sam was responsible for them now.

When he used one of the stolen cards to buy a gun to replace the one he had lost, and when the car he had stolen hit ninety on the freeway heading west, Sam didn't feel a twinge of guilt. It was an eight-hour drive to Manning, Colorado. Sam was preparing for war, and this time, Dean wouldn't be around to save him.

TBC

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Okay, long winded notes here, feel free to skip. For those of you who might feel as though I am copping out when I say that Sam can't change _his_ past, the only real explanation I can give you is that I really don't want to go down the Back to the Future photo fade road. Nor do I believe events could just magically fade from Sam's memory. This story does deal with what happens when events change for the better or worse, but if Sam did something different and lost his memory of how it happened in the first place, then he wouldn't _know_ he had done anything wrong, leading us down weird and wonderful metaphysical roads that I am nowhere near tipsy enough to navigate. You lot have some very awesome ideas, so keep em coming. I think you're even meaner to the boys than I plan to be!

Happy St Paddy's day to you all, the one day of the year where everyone is Irish!


	5. Chapter 5

_Okay folks, one more short chapter after this, and we'll _finally_ get past the worlds longest introduction and into the story. Yikes. Angst, here we come…_

_Thank you again to all those of you who take the time to review. It brightens up my day immeasurably. Plus super kisses to Rowan for the read through. She insisted on the scene at the end. _

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**_The deep pain that is felt at the death of every friendly soul arises from the feeling that there is in every individual something which is inexpressible, peculiar to him alone, and is, therefore, absolutely and irretrievably lost. _**

**_Arthur Schopenhauer_**

John had always said that Dean's talent lay in patterns. Sam was the detail orientated one, the planner, but Dean could spot a pattern in just about anything, and he was damn good at using what he saw to his own advantage. The older Winchester was like a Renaissance alchemist, working in mental codes and diagrams that few could interpret. Sam could recognise the genius in his brother, even if he might never acknowledge it aloud. That element was what made them such a good pair. Sam's knowledge of the occult was damn near peerless, his logical, analytical mind weaving together the strands of a plan with all the intricacy of the Bayeux Tapestry. Dean factored in the human element and bam, Danny Ocean, eat your heart out.

That wasn't to say he was incapable of masterminding his own nefarious schemes without his brother breathing down his neck, he'd managed four years at Stanford after all, but he did miss Dean. Sam had the propensity for getting caught up in things, agonising over what his mind couldn't organise and getting frustrated when he failed to understand or compute what was happening. Dean, in his own kooky way, could cut through it all with a single glance. He'd wind Sam up, tease him, prod him, drive him around the bend. He'd get his brother so worked up that by the time Sam had stopped telling Dean what a jerk he was, he'd have forgotten what was causing the mental roadblock and the answers would be as clear as day.

Now there was no one whistling in his ear as he tried to cover the variables in his mind. The new car he has stolen once belonged to someone with a worse taste in music than Bobby, and the radio was shot. The hours of silence were almost too much even for Sam. There was no smug voice cutting though his thoughts with the infinitely childish comment of '_I spy with my little eye_,' or a disturbingly amused observation of '_ooh, road kill!'_

In the silence, all he could do was think. And there was plenty on his mind to keep him occupied. The events prior to his trip to the Twilight Zone played over in his mind, every detail crystal clear, from the drive into town and the motel with the Egyptian themed wallpaper. The planning, the tracking, he remembered it all, then he and Dean were running, chasing after the shifter who had been damned fast for such a short guy. He remembered wrapping his hands around a bicep, spinning the shifter around, his fingers closing around the bronze chain around his neck. Dean shouted his name, then nothing.

And Dean, god, Dean. The brother he'd grown up with was probably close to a nervous breakdown. Dean had been almost _clingy_ since the possession incident. He had always wanted to know where Sam was going, when he would be back, but he'd started to resemble an over-protective father with a pretty daughter going on her first date. If Sam were going to be honest, he'd admit he actually resented it. Of course he understood where Dean was coming from, the fears behind his actions. That didn't change the fact that every time Dean looked at him, every silent question and observation was a painfully sharp reminder of the trust that had been fractured between them.

It had taken months for Sam to earn back the confidence he had forfeit when leaving for college. Dean hadn't trusted him to take care of himself, to watch both their backs. It had been hard, but he'd gradually won back his brother's trust, his respect as an equal. Now Dean once again saw Sam as someone who needed constant supervision and protection. Dean didn't trust Sam to have his back anymore, because Sam couldn't even save himself.

The status-quo had been shifted back to a big brother out to protect his younger sibling from the evil things in the dark. The vanishing act, the third such event in as many months…

Screw destiny. Dean would kill him first.

Unconsciously Sam grimaced. Probably not the best line of thought to follow through on.

Instead he turned his mind to his father. The recent encounter hadn't shifted the way he had seen his father, but they had certainly magnified what Sam had always subconsciously known. John and Dean were startlingly similar in many ways, just as Sam and his father were in others. Both older Winchester's masked their pain with a cause, with a game face that was almost impenetrable.

He'd been on the road for close to five days now, spoken to Missouri three times since dropping John at her house. Dean and Sammy were happily ensconced in the psychic's care, Peanut the kitten having adopted the two children as her new favourite humans. John divided his time between a bar and playing the role of inquisitor. He needed a stern woman like Missouri to keep him in line in the turbulent few days that had followed her revelation of all things dark and creepy.

"_You know I don't approve." _She had said sternly during their last conversation. "_Daniel is going to blow a fuse when he finds out who stole that damn gun."_

"I don't exist, remember." Sam had reminded her. The colt was wrapped in a brown paper bag from a convenience store.

"_That is besides the point Samuel Winchester."_

"I'm not taking the chance. If things aren't going to play out the way they did for me, then there is no way I'm risking their lives on a technicality. Elkins will just have to live with that."

"_That doesn't change the fact that you are driving over a thousand miles out of your way to face the thing that killed your mom." _Missouri scolded. Sam could hear the concern in her voice and it warmed his heart somewhat.

"I'm not going to face it. I'm going to save a boy's life. There is a subtle difference."

"_Don't you play at semantics with me, boy!"_

Shamed, he apologised. "I'm sorry, Missouri. But I have to do this. You don't know what happens to this kid. If I can stop it…"

"_And what happens if it kills you?" _She refused to let the point drop. "_Hmm? What then? John is already itching to have you back, he wants answers, he wants a comrade in arms. I can't give him that, and I won't be the one to take away whatever hope you might have given him by telling the poor bastard that you got yourself killed on some crazy crusade!"_

Quietly, Sam simply said, "Please. Just trust me on this. I'll be back in a few days. Keep him away from the rum."

"_Too late."_ She scoffed.

Sam winced. His father was a morose drunk, but he only ever got violent after drinking dark rum. To the best of Sam's knowledge, John steered clear of it, and it was the only thing Dean actively refused to let their father drink.

"Then keep him away from the boys." If he could spare Dean the pain of losing another parent, even if it was only a temporary loss, he would.

Missouri had promised to do so, and threatened him with various painful deaths if he didn't get his ass in gear and get home soon. Home. It was a strange idea for someone who had never had a home in the traditional sense of the word. He did want to get back to them.

The street he pulled into hadn't changed much in the past two decades. Christmas decorations were up, and Sam realised that tomorrow would be Christmas Eve. Twice as determined to make it back to Lawrence in time to spend the holiday with the boys, Sam climbed from the car. The glittering fairy lights were the main source of lighting in the street, but one house was bare, devoid of Christmas cheer. Even if Sam hadn't been there before, he would have know that he'd found his destination. He entered the house next door to it on the right.

Lock pick in hand, Sam entered the Miller residence silently and quickly located the room where six-month-old Max slept. Using the same psychic trick he had used on Dean, he quieted the little boy, noticing sadly the beginning signs of abuse the child would grow up with.

"Okay, kiddo. Let's go meet your new family."

Fifteen exhausting hours later, and several reminders that he really had no idea how to care for an infant, and Sam arrived outside the parish of Pastor Jim Murphy. Huddled against the cold, holding the child protectively against his chest, Sam stumbled wearily into the church. It was early, and the pastor was the only one present, preparing for the evening sermons.

Kind face, gentle eyes, hair that had yet to turn silver. Sam took one look at the man who had been almost a surrogate father to him and Dean. Wordlessly, he passed Max to the confused cleric before day's worth of exhaustion and worry pounced. Dizzily he heard Jim call out in surprise before the twinkling lights overhead blinked once, twice, and everything faded from sight.

The presence of a stranger overhead brought Sam back into consciousness with a vicious jolt. His head pounded, but that aside, he felt much better than he had when his head had met the church floor.

"Easy." A soothing voice called out from above. A large hand pressed against his chest and eased him back into the sheets. "You've been unconscious for three days now, you've had us worried, young one."

_Young one. _That had always been Dean's nickname from the pastor. Sam had been _little one_, even when he grew taller than Dean, his father, and James Murphy.

Wait. We?

Sam opened his eyes. Jim sat besides his bed, a kind, comforting smile on his face, and no hint of the questions that must have been running through the man's head. Two men stood in the apex of the doorway. One, Jefferson Guerin, Sam recognised. Jefferson was one hunter who had escaped Meg's rampage and continued to call both Sam and Dean _kiddo. _A tall man stood slightly behind him, a man Sam didn't recognise.

"You're lucky Missouri called ahead to let us know you were coming. It would have been difficult to explain to my congregation why I had an unconscious young man slumped in the front pew. William and Jefferson arrived shortly after you did. They had the pleasure of carrying you back to my home."

"Missouri?"

Jim nodded.

"Damn psychic." Sam muttered. Jefferson let out a harsh bark of laughter that hurt Sam's head.

"Well she remained rather vague with the details." William said pointedly. "Woman likes to make us work for a living. You got a name, kid?"

Sam cleared his throat.

"Sam."

"Sam," Jefferson echoed, waiting for a surname.

"Sam." Repeated firmly, not offering one. Jim held up a hand to stem any further questions, respecting Sam's desire for some anonymity, if not understanding the reasons. "As I said. You were unconscious for some time. The injuries to your arm and back had become infected. You should take better care of yourself, young hunter."

Sam snorted and sat up awkwardly, not liking his vulnerable position, even if it was with men he knew. Sort of. He could barely meet Jim's eyes. It was strange, painful, to have back two of the men he had loved and lost, and know that they would never see him as Sammy, the boy they had loved, but as Sam, a stranger.

"Max?"

"The child?" Jim asked.

Sam nodded and took a sip of the water Jefferson passed him. Through the window, he could see the street below, lights twinkled there as well. He'd missed Christmas, and knew that John would have forgotten it all together.

"He's with Alice, a woman in my parish. She's quite dotting on the boy."

Sam nodded again. Good. Max deserved a family that loved him. "His parents were killed by a demon."

Instantly, the air bristled with tension. Jim straightened. Jefferson shifted in a way that Sam had seen a hundred times. William, and Sam knew him to be Ellen's husband, William Harvelle, jerked as if electrocuted.

"He has no one that will take care of him. I hoped you might be able to help him."

Jim nodded thoughtfully. Harvelle frowned and moved closer to the bed. "You're a little young to be hunting demons, boy."

Used to the derision that his age had earned him, and equally used to the grudging respect that came with his name, Sam let the insult slide. "I've been hunting since I was twelve. I'm not exactly new to this."

"Your folks were hunters?"

"They're dead now. Job doesn't exactly come with a retirement plan."

"William," Jim stepped in, sensing Sam's reluctance to elaborate and directing the gruff hunter's attention away from the injured young man. "Perhaps you could call Missouri and let her know Sam has awoken."

"Wait, please tell her I want to talk to Dean."

Jefferson nodded. "Use the cordless." He suggested to his friend.

In the time it took for William to deliver his message to the psychic woman, Jim busied himself with checking the various bandages adorning Sam's body. In the chaos of the past week, Sam had hardly stopped to sleep, and his injuries had been pushed aside, first to save Dean, then to complete his tasks in time to return to the boys for their first Christmas without their mother. His first Christmas without Jessica had only recently passed, he knew how much it hurt.

He didn't expect Dean to talk to him, but he needed to hear the little boy's voice, just to know he was okay. Jefferson handed over the phone, and the three hunters left Sam in peace.

"Dean?"

Silence filled the line, then a quiet "_Hi." _It was so meek, so unlike his brother, who would have been marinating in whiskey, and balancing a girl in each arm as a way of celebrating.

"You okay, kiddo?" Do you hurt? Physically? Emotionally? Can I kill anything to make you feel better?

"_Yeah."_

"How's Sammy?" He'd hopefully get more of an answer out of the kid if his brother was the topic of discussion. He was right.

"_He's playing with Peanut."_

Sam sighed sadly. "I'll be back soon, okay?" He said, knowing that the boy probably didn't care either way.

"_Okay."_

Jim returned to take the phone back to the hall. As he left, he gave Sam a compassionate smile. "A friend?"

Sam nodded.

"You miss him, I understand. It is hard to be separated from loved ones, especially during the holidays." The pastor's quiet words of wisdom brought Sam back to a time when he was young, and Jim was demonstrating his newest shadow puppets on the walls of the den.

"He just lost his mom." Sam said, the sadly added, "It's like I don't know him anymore."

"Grief does strange things to us all. Give him time. He will come back to you, I'm sure."

Sam nodded. Grief was a strange beast. Sam knew that better than most.

TBC


End file.
